


The release

by FallenFurther



Series: Sensory Sunday [4]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Comfort, Comfort No Hurt, Feelings, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Good Taste, Islands, References to Thunderbirds, Relax - Freeform, Scents & Smells, Tracy Island, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, calm, release
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenFurther/pseuds/FallenFurther
Summary: After a tough rescue, Virgil wakes up early and finds a way to unwind and let go.Sense prompt: Taste
Series: Sensory Sunday [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771204
Kudos: 8





	The release

The warmth seeped through the mug to his hands as the sea breeze whipped his unbrushed hair. As he stood, his eyes swept across the ocean and he watched the sun rise over the horizon. The waves crashed against the rocks at his feet, sending fine salty spray into the air. It filled his lungs and seeped into every pore. The taste of the sea only enhanced the scene before him. There was something about the crashing waves that captivated artists and he was no exception. 

Virgil raised the mug to his lips, inhaling the sweet smell as it ran down his throat. The rich flavour chased away the salt leaving a soothingly bitter aftertaste. He drained the last of it before settling down on the rock beside his satchel. The worn brown leather was perfect for containing and protecting his art supplies. Slipping his hand under the flap Virgil retrieved his sketchpad and charcoal pencils. Laying the book on his legs, Virgil started sketching the sunrise, the waves crashing against rocks and the odd bird which passed over the island. Occasionally he'd raise the pencil to his mouth in thought. The sweet soft wood danced along the top of his tongue as he nibbled the end of the pencil. It was a bad habit and occasionally he got the metallic tang from the charcoal when be bit down a little too hard. 

It was a rare thing, for Virgil to be up at dawn, even more so to be out on the cliffs with a sketched. But when he had woken up and seen the first hints of dawn, the views had beckoned him. Virgil refilled his mug from the large thermos, the bitter fluid helped to fight the cold bite of the morning wind. It’s cool fingers brushed through his hair, causing the strands to dance along his forehead. He slipped a few coloured pencils from their sleeve and swept them across his paper, trying to capture just a little of the beauty before him. He could already visualise the paints he was going to splash on the canvas when he finally got time to recreating the scene. The island was an artist's paradise. There was always something to paint or sketch. The seasons changing the image in a different way to the weather or time. He'd watched rocks fall from cliffs as they gave in to the might of the sea, he'd seen trees felled by gale force winds, their exposed roots like tangled hair, and he'd seen animals thrive in the natural reserve of the island, young birds taking their first flight and caterpillars becoming dainty butterflies. 

Lost in the beauty of the world around him, Virgil sketchpad filled up with charcoal and colour. His mind shifted away from the last rescue, all the worries and pain being blown out of him by the wind. His hands worked with ease as his heart soared with the birds he was capturing with swift dark lines. Content. Virgil was in the moment, his moment, on their Island. There was a silence in the howling wind and a calm in the crashing waves. There was no comm in his ear, not background noise of brothers or terror of screams and people calling for help. He was alone. He was at peace. He could pick himself up, dust himself off and start to heal the wounds the tough rescue had left behind. 

Virgil's heart lightened with the sky. When the sun had risen about the horizon, it was time for Virgil to out his pencil down. He rolled his shoulders. His muscles were stiff but the tension he'd gone to bed with had been shed, leaving only the usually worries behind. He had brothers to chase up, to wrangle out of bed and sit with. Virgil had to make sure they were coping and doing so in a healthy way. He let the pages of the pad gently fall closed and packed away his things. His hand brought the mug to his lips only for him to splutter at the now cold tart liquid. He'd been so lost in his work his coffee had cooled. He fed it to the plants beside him before moving to sit against a tree. Pouring himself a fresh mug from the thermos, he drank again. The comforting nutty flavours of his favourite ground washed over his palette, bring a sigh to his lips. Leaning back, eyes closed, Virgil took in the island with his ears, listening to the music it created. He lay there long after he had finished his coffee, content to just sit in peace with the island. His eyes remained closed, his breathing slowed, and he relax. He stayed that way until the slow rhythmic pounding of Scott's feet halted before him.


End file.
